The Journey (40 page)

Yet Paul keeps going, searching and searching, reading the newspapers posted on many walls. He cannot keep straight all the names that are posted. They are names handed down through families, legacies written on the destroyed houses instead of flowers brought to those untended graves, and by which the souls of these buildings from back then can still be remembered, the piled mounds of bricks serving as shelter for them. Paul is pleased that amid such misery these addresses have provided shelter to the names of others, even if they are not among those he is looking for. The name Küpenreiter is not among them. Fine, there are so many names; all one has to do is keep searching tirelessly through the newspaper and the truth will out. Yet not just the buildings are destroyed. The streets here are also badly wounded, the ground ripped apart, cellars yawn wide and gape open with their stench in the full light of day, rods bent, water mains exposed. Paul has to walk with caution, one step to the right, one to the left, then around the corner, then better to step back and then go around. Out of the rubble treasures left behind appear, even fragments seeming precious to whomever wants them. It doesn’t take much effort, just bend down and grab hold, or just use a stick to scrape away the rubble, for there’s much that’s there to take. Yet Paul moves on, he doesn’t have time to kill.

Paul pushes on through a tangled wilderness, which is the old part of the city. Artfully carved stones, long since weather-beaten and newly blackened, confess themselves a part of time that has died, that is no longer, though it nonetheless still lies confused and sunning itself in the clear light of the present day, which still has mercy upon what once was. It is quite warm, here it’s still burning. The attack was defied, the lost fatherland still wanted to be victorious. Now real guilt suffers in secret as a result
of inflicted guilt, but above such adversity stretches a sky empty of shards, full of clear air. Only little fires flicker, slowly fueling themselves. A man stands there. He warns others about something and points with his hands in senseless gestures. Not too close, best to go around, the wall that’s leaning forward is pretty shaky, the stones are loose and are about to fall. “Whoever doesn’t have anything to look for here should get out of here!” Paul is now a free man who doesn’t allow himself to be ordered around.—What do you want?—I’m looking for the commandant!—He’s not here in the rubble.—Where is the commandant?—He’s not here. Everything that was alive was taken away.—Where are the others?—They will be buried later after everything has been pulled down, the chimneys still standing have to be toppled. The outer streets are much safer, Paul is told. He takes no advice, but instead walks straight ahead through the field of rubble. As long as he’s going forward. Then a fallen horse. Has someone pulled it from the museum? The legs and rear are recognizable. Why doesn’t anyone bury the old nag? A horse?! First come people who are still alive, then dead animals.

Paul drags himself farther. No matter how much he wants, he still can’t get himself to move fast enough. The burned-out city requires caution. Here is an outlying plaza with old elms. Even the limbs are knocked off, the tree crowns destroyed and barely able to sprout. The most fashionable shops were once located here, the riches of the world displayed row upon row. What is left has been taken off to the museum, if there’s anything. The businesses stand wide open, cleaned out and without any wares. The only vendors left are those who have been buried alive and who no longer have any customers. Only beautiful signs still hang there in the night, though no one comes. No one watches over the wares that are left. On a pane of glass one can still read:

There is city hall. Only the entrance stands in undamaged splendor. The building cannot be saved, it is swept away. The officials who worked here each day have fled. Nothing is administered, the city no longer has any city fathers. Perhaps they are not far off and are hiding where walls are still standing, inside of which they still govern. The higher-ups have time
and are only waiting until everything is on the mend once more. Then they can show their heads once again and nothing will happen to them. And so it happens. Honor us once again! Orders ripple through Unkenburg. The orders say what will be closed. Be patient, we will certainly be back, it’s just today that we have to hide out around the corner.

Paul reaches a deserted playground, then a dormant park that is a little messy and weedy, though spring has shyly reappeared within it. Some of the trees are damaged, but others are not and are sprouting. The first branches are budding. The grass is fresh, the flowers are opening up. Nobody sits on the park benches, for there is no one who wants to. Even Paul doesn’t allow himself to take a rest. In the middle of a flower bed there’s a memorial that still stands, the white marble having turned gray, what was once a general. His name is pressed in gold and will last for many years. The city is grateful; three times he saved it, hunting down the enemy until it lay stretched out in the dust and demoralized, the citizens never forgetting it, fame and honor following. The general raises his saber, proudly as ever; he has lost only his head, though it lies not far off in the flower bed and looks satisfied, because victory belongs to him. Only the nose is missing from the face, but that doesn’t matter. A sculptor will make a new one and set the head carefully back on the trunk. The living will fulfill their responsibility in placing the healed general once again on the decorated pedestal.

After the general, Paul doesn’t look around at anything. He crosses the park, behind it towers the cathedral, a noble work of time-honored beauty, three hundred years spent on its construction. It still stands as its creator had planned, its massive weight lightened by its delicate features, a placid embodiment of the spirit of the firmament, its dimensions conveying certainty through their weight and welcoming the observer, who after having seen so much destruction can now take joy in the quiet safety of its mighty height, because it stood the test and did not collapse when all else did. This is a comfort. The residential buildings have fallen, city hall has fallen, the churning whirlpool has swept away Unkenburg, sparing this lovely building around which the city can rise once again. The enemy was honorable in sparing this treasure. Paul only looks for a short while at the wonder that for a moment grants him faith, and then he looks up. It pains his eyes. One tower still hangs above, the other is lopped off, the
steep, bright slate roof now caved in, the delicate high windows smashed, the great rose window over the portal now blind. Not even the cathedral is sacred. Away from here!

Paul hears music, singing and instruments, none of it can be too far away. So there must still be happy people here. They are lucky to have a long building that’s still intact and with a large courtyard. Paul hurries inside, they welcome him with slaps on the back and chuckling comments, arms encircling him as they walk into the house and into a cluttered room. The celebration pains him. They offer him a chair. The celebration of freedom. Paul forgets for a moment, because the drum beats so loudly. Paul is a victor, and victors celebrate. Soon they’ll be going home. This Unkenburg, who cares about it! What happened, there’s no need to talk about it, it’s all in the past. The city is destroyed. Who can be sad about that? It’s only right, it’s pure revenge. The cathedral there, a couple of hundred steps away. A cathedral? They’ll rebuild it. But people! Taken away! Taken away! At least there’s peace again. Time heals all wounds. Only life matters, lovely freedom and all of its revenge, the overflow of riches showering down on all.… Paul no longer listens, the voices blend into one another such that none can be heard. The tired spirit cannot hold together what is being torn apart here by many voices crumbling, and what a sound, each one singing a different song.

Paul squats with his back bent and sinks into himself. They bring wine, they bring bread and butter, a plate full of apples. They offer him sweets. He should take some more. They bring good shoes; it doesn’t matter that they’re not completely new. His feet are pleased, Paul is satisfied, even if one is bigger than the other, the pliant leather rubbed with whale oil. One of them ties Paul’s shoes and strokes them with his fingers as if blessing them. They bring him a dark green woolen coat. It’s soft and smells clean. The people say that they will soon leave Unkenburg, most likely in the next few days, in a week at the latest. He should stay with them, there’s a bed free in the hallway, he can have two blankets, a feather pillow, and a mattress that’s been filled with fresh straw. Paul is not from their country. He has to leave.—Where are you going? Paul doesn’t know, maybe to Stupart, maybe not. The new friends press him to stay, they will make him comfortable and take care of him, they will take him along to their country, there it’s beautiful, there he will be free, he will
have a new home. Paul is touched and thanks them, yet he says sadly that he knows nobody in that country.—What do you mean you don’t know anyone? You indeed know everyone who is here, and everyone there is just like everyone here.—No, Paul has to go back to the country from which he came.—They tell him that the war is still on there, even though it won’t last much longer. He should wait until it’s over before he returns. Meanwhile they invite him to travel with them. If he still wants to go back later, then he can go on his own to Stupart. Paul thanks them again but says no, he has to get to the commandant. They hardly pay attention to what he says and continue talking. Yet one of them knows that the commandant is at the other end of the city, not far from the train station.—Police headquarters?—Yes, that’s it. They explain it to him, first take a right, then straight on. Paul says good-bye in his new shoes and new coat and is once again on his way.

Paul can’t make any headway. He asks once again for the building he’s looking for. Most have no idea. Some point him in the right direction, others lead him astray, but slowly he presses on. At one intersection he remains standing and recognizes the theater. It looks a lot like the one in Stupart. About half of it is still standing, namely the stage with its protective iron curtain that has been scorched by heat and shot through by bullets. The prompter’s stall has survived intact. Maybe the prompter still sits inside it and whispers his prompts so that the show isn’t interrupted. Yet nobody makes a sound, the actors have gone off. Strands of fabric onstage sway in the wind. Isn’t there a rabbit squatting there who is waiting for the show to start? The music plays on merrily, yet so quietly that Paul cannot hear it. The coffin has already disappeared, soon the burning will occur, which the public never sees. One cannot even demand the producers show it, for no one has been charged an entrance fee. Nonetheless some would steal a glance at the stage, though no one remains, there being no proper audience left. The public is denied the sight, though in fact it’s never even presented on stage. The spectators have been taken away, their most important role has disappeared. Paul knows for sure that the time of the spectator is over. Whoever does not want to act for himself now is lost, for he does not exist, he no longer even has an apartment in which to live. Will guest performers still be allowed to make an appearance? If the trapdoor has not been destroyed, there’s still hope. Whatever is still a part of
the theater can be rebuilt. The onlookers will gather before time’s stage. Then the present will dawn again.

Paul quietly says to himself: “You’re still a part of this. You are on the road with your companions and friends, you stand, you walk, you fall, and you die. The image of the journey. Memory that is ever drawn to wandering. There is a center that is the original beginning and final destination of the journey. Have I reached the destination? Am I now a guest? Am I the innkeeper of The Golden Grape who plays his role before his guests? I’m standing on the stage, like a dead man fleeing a specter.” Paul stops short and ceases whispering the moment he senses someone nearby. Paul laughs, trying to pull himself together as he is spoken to.

“You’re not from Unkenburg, are you?”

“No.”

“I thought not. But a theater lover nonetheless?”

“The hand. The wrong way. The crematorium.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I know. You mean the theater?”

“Yes, the theater. I’m from Unkenburg.”

“You’re from Unkenburg. That was the stage. I can see it. That means the stage is still standing. Everything is there. One can still play a part.”

“Unfortunately that’s not possible. But I thought the same thing. You were just talking as if you were onstage!”

“And you understood what I said?”

“No, I didn’t. It was too soft. Are you a professional? Pardon me, a friend of the muses?”

“I’m not a professional actor, and yet I am. It’s kind of a joke.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean that I’m not at all from the theater. I only act in a certain way, not for real. I don’t want to disappoint you. Instead I’m from the museum. I am from the Technology Museum in my hometown.”

“So then a theater lover. Pardon me, but you seem somewhat upset. I don’t want to bother you.”

“What do you mean!”

“I see that you’ve had nearly as hard a time of it as me. Any sensible person today can’t help lamenting any destruction that occurs. Whether it
has to do with a theater or with a museum, there’s really not that much difference.”

“Or people, the many, many people? If it has to do with a crematorium?… The difference, perhaps one can only flee the specter, no rest … the journey … taken away … rubbish, rubble everywhere … Forgive me …!”

“Are you all right?”

“I already said, forgive me! I’m tired. I have traveled too far. The image of the dead stage got to me.”

“I had a subscription.”

“Really? Tell me about this theater.”

“Even in the last year of the war the best plays were still staged in Unkenburg. Then came the tragedy—everything destroyed. You can see for yourself!”